


The Tree of Knowledge, of Good and Evil

by osmalic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Post Season 3, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-22
Updated: 2009-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Baba Yaga's just a myth, but Dean's still not going to fall for any trap. There's nothing he wants to ask, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tree of Knowledge, of Good and Evil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loony_moony](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=loony_moony).



Sam's always been the one with all the questions. Kid couldn't stop asking them ever since he learned how to speak, and ever since then it's been Dean trying to keep up. When he couldn't, Sam just turned to other things that learned to speak his language.

Dean, on the other hand, he doesn't need answers, he doesn't need confirmation. On some fucked-up level he understands that what he really needs is _orders._

That is, until he comes back from Hell. When he and Sam don't fit each other anymore. When there's an angel hitching a ride on his shoulders and a demon tracking their trails.

Now, he has all kinds of questions, none of which he knows has answers that can be found in books.

* * *

They both look for gigs in the newspapers, figuring out patterns and putting together puzzles, as if nothing has changed. In a nondescript library, the middle of a backwash town somewhere in New Mexico, Sam looks up and gives Dean a serious look. "There's an old woman who says she can see the future," he says.

"And I can see ghosts," Dean deadpans, dropping on the seat across him. "But seriously, anything?"

"Yes, seriously, _this."_ Sam slides the newspaper across him, followed by other brittle articles. "Seems like she's been doing this for some time, and they come true."

"Oh, come on, Sam, _really?"_ Dean rolls his eyes. "What are you thinking, a deal with the devil? A little hoodoo?"

"I don't know, maybe we should check it out." Sam makes a face at him. "C'mon, man, it's in Oregon. We can make it in a few days, no rush. Finish up what we came here to do, so we have a plan."

"Great, I'll just check my planner, see if I have anything else to do for next week." Dean resists rolling his eyes again, but he takes a glance at the newspapers. _Local woman claims to have all answers._ "I found Leon Goodwill's plot. We have a couple of hours before we have to be there."

Sam looks like he's gearing for a fight, but he nods instead, folding the newspapers. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "You ever wonder how we'll look like in ten years?"

Dean wants to tell him, _Why, one year and four months wasn't enough for you?_ But he resists, smirking. "You'll be all gums and have no hair." And he waggles his eyebrows. "Oh wait, that's a prediction for tonight."

"Don't joke like that, man," Sam says, although he cracks a smile.

* * *

There's a hunter who catches up on them, crazed and insane in a way that Gordon Walker was. He says Jesus spoke to him, telling him to kill Sam Winchester and— Dean shoots him then and there, just as he pulls out his knife.

Sam gives him a look, and Dean defends, "I only shot his leg."

"Oh god," the hunter is moaning. "Oh god, I'm _bleeding."_

Sam drops to his knees, examining the hunter's wound while Dean grabs the guy's arms, holding them back. He thinks maybe this guy hasn't been a hunter for long, but there's a wild glint in his eyes that feels _old._ "It's not that bad," Sam says automatically, looking at the wound. "It looks almost— _fuck!"_

And the guy pulls out of Dean's grasp, laughing, his boots connecting to Sam's jaw while Dean instinctively takes a step back. The man's eyes slip into black, making Dean say, _"Goddammit,"_ before pulling out his gun again and aiming.

Fucking shoots the guy's heart.

"Dean, _Dean,"_ the demon mocks, "Jesus _did_ say something about killing, you know. You just... _weren't listening."_

"Fuck you," Dean snarls, and he thinks about shooting again just for spite. He doesn't; can't waste bullets. And he knows now that the knife will not affect Alistair. "What the hell do you want—"

"Oh, _questions,"_ Alistair says in delight. "You like thinking now, don't you, Dean? If you just _asked,_ I would have given you back your mind, instead of just your body—"

 _"Shut the fuck up."_

"I never wanted to kill you, Dean," the demon before him says, grinning. He's flexing his shoulders and stretching his legs, moving to stand in a fluid grace that Dean will always remember, always associate with Alistair. "Oh, _no,_ whatever gave you the idea? I just want you _back."_

 _"DEAN!"_ Sam shouts.

Dean manages to get one shot right between the hunter's eyes just as Sam swings down and pulls the guy's leg. The demon flails, laughing and choking as the black cloud pours out of his mouth and swirl above them, disappearing.

* * *

"Don't you ever question anything?" Sam used to ask him, especially when he was a teenager. "Don't you want to know a lot of things?"

"I've got you to find out for me," Dean had told him before, and it's mostly true.

But now, Sam's a million miles away, with his eyes unfocused, watching the scenery change outside the car window. Dean tells him a lot of things, offers a lot of jokes, stories, engaging ideas, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't ask, _Why don't we fit anymore?_

* * *

"So the woman who sees the future?" Sam says. "She apparently also knows everything. She's like...the local town crazy, except everyone believes her."

"Like...some sort of omniscient encyclopedia?" Dean asks, confused.

Sam laughs. "Dude, did you just say _'omniscient'_?"

"Shut the fuck up and tell me," Dean growls.

Sam's still grinning, but he complies. "Yeah, but she doesn't have it everyday, and she just uses it for people who really need to have their questions answered."

"Did you just get off the phone with her?"

"It was written on page A3." Sam pauses, then adds sheepishly, "And continued on A17."

Dean shakes his head. _Geek._ "She's got to be the town darling, shouldn't she?"

Sam presses close to him, close enough that Dean can feel the muscles on his arm dig against his side. "Nah, man, here's the thing. No one likes a know-it-all."

* * *

For all their plans and putting together patterns and puzzles, there are times when haunts find them instead of the other way around.

On an empty stretch of highway, they stop at a scene of an accident. A woman, all bloody and weeping, sits at their backseat. "I just want to get my children," she whispers, hiccupping. "I need a phone, and I need to tell them about my husband—"

"We don't need your reasons," Dean starts to say.

But Sam shushes him with a look, keeps saying, "Don't worry, we'll get there, we'll find a phone," over and over, until the woman's weeping figure fades from the backseat.

Dean grips the wheel, keeps glancing at his rearview mirror, avoiding Sam's expression. He wonders why Sam's soothing voice doesn't calm him down.

 _Is this how Ruby talked to you?_ he wonders, but not out-loud. _Is this how you said yes?_

But they stop at the next town, look into microfiches and old news clippings. It takes two days to track down her children, now grown-up and scattered across America. They know the ghost will never leave that lonely highway.

With this option out of the way, they salt and burn the remains instead.

* * *

The fact is: Sam's the one who has the burning need to have all his questions answered. He natters on and on about social theory and folklore origins, reads books without having to, talks about how they're going to, asks why all the time.

And fact is: Dean doesn't really care about reason. So maybe Sam doesn't like it but so what. He doesn't give a shit. He's not the one who ran away to college, looking for answers.

He doesn't need them. There are too many things to kill, too many ways to _be_ killed. Too many people who've died, waiting to be avenged.

But now, it's all fucked up. And it's stupid to be bothered by the littlest things, like how Sam looks totally at peace with himself while he's explaining his descent down the slippery slope to hell.

Dean itches to ask him more questions, but Sam's longest explanation involves talking about _how he had sex with Demon Ruby,_ so yeah, it's going to be a long time before Dean manages to scrub that image out of his brain.

But there's something about the way they move now, and Dean wonders if Sam wouldn't really rather be somewhere else, be with Ruby instead of indulging his newly-reformed brother whose death he's been slowly getting over with.

Dean doesn't like poetry unless they're being spouted by Metallica, but he wants to ask, _Hey, am I doing anything wrong?_

* * *

There nearest motel is ten miles away from the woman's house, but they store their gear there anyway.

"I dunno," Dean keeps telling Sam. "I don't think I have anything to ask."

"Come on," Sam replies skeptically. "Seriously? Not any question?"

"I'd probably ask for the winning numbers for tomorrow's lotto," Dean offers, grinning when Sam makes a face. "Seriously, Sam! I'm pretty content."

"Yeah, like I believe that," Sam says. He motions for Dean to come closer, hefts holy water in his belt and checks the guns. Dean lets him. "You wouldn't ask her anything? At all?"

Dean shrugs. "Wrong person to ask," he says. At Sam's questioning look, he shrugs again. "If I want to know something, I ask the right person. There's no sense beating around the bush."

"It's what you call _research,_ Dean," Sam says, grinning.

"And that's why you're the one who's so good at it, geekface," Dean replies, pushing him back and turning away. He reaches for his gun, but is surprised when Sam suddenly pulls him close, wrapping his arms around him, just holding on. "Hey—"

"No crossroads deals," Sam tells him, and his mouth is right against Dean's ear. "No questions asked. We're not there to get answers."

"I'm not gonna," Dean replies hotly, squirming. "Sam, _let go of me."_ He doesn't pull away, but he yelps indignantly when Sam attempts to give him a noogie. His breathing will return to normal in five...four...

* * *

They just want to ask questions, but no one answers the door when they knock. They go around, find the backdoor unlocked. After shouting, _"Police, we're coming in,"_ and removing their gun from the holsters, they push the screen door open, take the few creaky steps inside.

They pass through the kitchen to the living room where a TV is showing a spaghetti western, and there's a huge rocking chair moving, back and forth.

They move in front of it. The old woman glances up, gives them a warm smile.

"I was wondering when you'd get here," she says.

Her eyes are milky white.

* * *

They act instinctively, both pulling out their guns and pressing it against her face—but Sam is pulled back with a yelp, only to be pinned to the wall.

Dean almost drops his gun to grab him, but Lilith's arm lashes out like a snake, boned fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull him back. Her strength is unsurprisingly magnified.

"Sam," he calls out, and Lilith laughs. He snarls, pressing the barrel of his gun to her forehead, metal against the thin skin covering her brittle skull.

"I'm fine," Sam tells him. "You?"

"I'm disappointed," Lilith clucks, resuming her rocking. "I mean, I gave you all the clues, thought I was being all scientific about it, putting patterns and everything. Like one of those mystery books! I expected you sooner."

"Yeah, seems like you don't know us enough," he replies. Removing the safety gives a satisfying click that reverberates in the room. "It sounded like one big joke. Haha, Sam and I are laughing."

She grins. Her thin lips stretches wide and her shadow on the floor shifts, rocks faster. "I'm just full of surprises, Dean. For example, you know I still hold your contract to Hell?" she asks him earnestly. Her eyes flicker, white to human, and they're bright and eager to talk. Like a child trapped in an aging body. When Dean doesn't answer, she slows her rocking. "You were my favorite toy, and I loved sharing you. If that angel just asked nicely—"

"I don't need to know," he snarls. "You have us, now what do you want?"

Lilith laughs. "Dean, _Dean._ You're asking the wrong questions. You know about Baba Yaga? She eats human flesh, but is kind to strangers. She answers all questions, but she requests payment."

"She also lives in a house with chicken legs that runs far away," Sam says from the wall.

"And it's full of shit." Dean's arm is getting tired, and they both know the gun is only for show. Nothing is going to stop Lilith from advancing towards them, even with all his protections.

"You know Ruby's not all lies." Lilith waggles her eyebrow. "Every demon remembers being human—it's what keeps the pain alive, what drives them away from Hell to return. Even me." She sighs, her rocking slows. "I was human once. You know the lore. Woman living at the edge of the forest. Wanting to be left alone. Or maybe I eat babies, or only possess little girls, take your pick."

"What do you want?"

Lilith sighs, her fingers around Dean's wrist tightening. She flickers a glance at Sam, but Dean doesn't dare look at him. "You," she replies simply. "Back in Hell, Dean, that's all we want. That's all we ever wanted. We even left Sam alone all those months you were in Hell."

 _"No!"_ Sam's voice is a strange garble of frustration and anger. "You won't—"

"Shut the fuck up, Sam," Dean says. He's never heard of this before.

"No, Dean, I—"

"Yes, Dean, _we do."_ Lilith's eyes turn white again, as if she's enjoying the show, but they return to their human shade. "All this time, you were only asking: _What would Sam be doing if I were down in Hell?_ What you should have been asking was, _What can I do to keep Sam up here?"_ She smiles.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ and Dean looks up, sees the crazy despair in Sam's eyes, the look he's only ever seen after those four months. Sam groans, pulls at his arms and legs, says pleadingly, "Dean."

"Lilith," Dean says slowly, "what can I do to keep—"

* * *

Sam is screaming after emptying two rounds on the woman's body. Lilith laughs, even when a bullet explodes on her face, leaving her throat gaping before black smoke spills out her mouth with a shriek. Dean pulls back and instinctively covers his face. He can still hear her laughter disappearing in the smoke.

Then Sam is pulling him up, still screaming. "Do you have a fucking death wish? Do you honestly think she didn't manipulate this entire situation so she can fucking have you back? Are you that just fucking insane and stupid and fucking insane?" Then he punches Dean's face.

Dean chokes back a laugh, quickly pulls away to look around the window. Fucking surreal, there's no one around except for a dead woman at their feet. No demons to shoot at. "That fucking hurt, asshole."

 _"Good,_ because you were about to ask how—"

"God, Sam, haven't you heard about indulging the bad guys sometimes, Jesus." Dean touches his lip gingerly. "Fucking split my lip."

Sam grips his arm and pulls him close. "Ruby said—"

"Oh, _fuck you,_ Sam, just because Ruby _said_ doesn't—"

Sam punches him again, on the stomach this time so whatever Dean is supposed to say comes out in rushed air. He puts a large hand over Dean's mouth, presses him against the wall. "No crossroads deals, no questions asked!" he shouts. "I have you back and _I'm not letting you fucking run away from me again."_

"I never—"

"Fuck you," Sam shouts, and kisses him.

It's just a harsh press of lips over his, Sam pushing and pushing until Dean gasps, pulls back, saying, "Sam, _Sam,"_ until it turns into a groan when Sam pulls his entire body against him, trapping him against the wall, teeth on his neck and worrying a small bruise.

Dean tries to push him back, but it's like being trapped and Sam is _moving_ against him. "Sam," he says, softer this time, and his hands come up to pull his brother closer, fingers tracing the curve of his face, his neck.

Their movements slow, but Sam still manages to touch him right, just so, his hands cupping Dean's groin and pressing hard. Cocks aligned, rubbing frantically through their jeans until they're both coming, still fully-clothed, their guns still pressed against skin and fingers. Dean scrabbles to grab Sam's neck, grunting his brother's name over and over, pressing his lips over his eyelids, his cheek, his mouth.

And Sam kisses back, gentler this time, but he's still saying, over and over, "No more questions. You're mine now."

* * *

Orgasm takes away some of the adrenaline, but Sam pulls himself away from Dean after a long time, already tucking his gun back in his pocket, looking down at the dead woman.

Dean tries to make his legs work—he's never been good at recovering post-orgasm—and makes his way towards the car to grab the can of gasoline. They take one last sweep, inspecting the house and making sure there's nothing that will incriminate them except for the bullets.

"I cleaned out my clip," Sam tells him matter-of-factly.

Dean pauses for a long time, stares down at the old woman. There's no blood; she's been dead for a long time. "Yeah," he finally says.

"I'm not sorry," Sam says resolutely.

Dean doesn't turn around. He doesn't have any questions now. For the first time in months, _years,_ he feels at peace. "Yeah." He turns to Sam, meeting his brother's eyes as he hands him the box of matches. "Me too, Sammy."

They leave before the house burns down completely.

* * *

"You could have asked _me,"_ Sam finally says.

Dean keeps his eyes on the road, wishing it's raining so he can claim distraction. "I did, and you told me what happened, remember? Then we shared, cared, grabbed a beer. Tried to get our manly faces back on."

"Did you know I tried to bargain?"

"You told me no one would deal." Dean sighs, shoots his brother a glance. Sam looks angry and small at the passenger seat, and it hits Dean suddenly about how is brother looked like this when he was in high school, back when Dean got him from Stanford. Has he always had this look? "Sam, I didn't do anything I didn't ask for. And I don't regret anything."

"Then why are you in such a rush to go back to Hell?" Sam bursts out. "I don't—"

"I'm not!" Dean shouts, slamming his hand on the wheel so hard, they almost skid. "I'm not—I don't want to go back!"

And there, it's out of in the open, words echoing in the confines of their car.

"You're not," Sam says, his voice almost sounding like a terrified whisper. A promise. "I'm not letting you, and you're mine."

"Stop saying that," Dean yells. "I'll do what it takes to—"

"Here's the answer, _here the fuck is the answer staring you at the face,"_ Sam interrupts angrily. "Those four months, I had to seek them out because no one was coming after me. They said they've always wanted you down there, and now they're leaving me alone because _I'm fucking controlled._ Ruby said—"

"I'm getting sick of hearing her name in all our—"

"Ruby said I can get you back!" Sam shouts. "If I just wait, let them think they have me cornered and cowed, I can fight back, and _I didn't care if it took years,_ I was never going to fucking get over your death." He pauses, takes a deep breath, then says, "Do you _understand that?_ I didn't care—"

"I heard you," Dean snaps back. "And she lied."

"That's not the point!" Now, Sam just sounds tired, and he slumps back into the car. "I knew she was, but it was what I needed to hear. It's not just me now, Dean. It's you and me."

 _You and me._ It feels stubborn and unyielding, something unbroken, a final piece to a puzzle. Dean shifts the gears, tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he agrees, choking. _You and me._ He hasn't heard that in years.

Sam reaches out, wraps his fingers around Deans wrist to pull him away from the shift stick. Dean almost floors the accelerator, jumping on his seat when Sam kisses the skin his fingers touch, lips pressing against the wildly beating pulse.

"Don't distract me," Dean says, feeling like a child.

"Have any more questions?" Sam murmurs against his skin.

They're entering the next town where traffic is heavier. Dean eases his hand away a little mournfully, shifts the gears, and doesn't protest when Sam puts a hand on his thigh instead. Inside his head, it feels silent, but full and bursting into seams. He doesn't know why taking this final step with his brother feels like getting a solution.

But he's never needed books and answers, and right now what he doesn't need are _orders._ He just wants his brother, with his hand on Dean's thigh, his eyes watching him as if he's all-knowing and omniscient and _there._

"No," he says finally. Decisive. Content. "Already found the right person to ask."

 

 _"And the Lord God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die."_  
\- Genesis 2: 16-17.


End file.
